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Milk This isn’t about how the child suckled, his flushed lips parted, eyes closed in a bliss of nourishment, the smell of his cheek after— This is about the text message she received from a lover years after the final time she breastfed— on her tank top this night, directly over the nipple: the small circular stain. She only notices it later when she brushes her hair in the mirror. The body with its leaked truths startles her in the bathroom light. What else will her body semaphore when she ignores its urges, when she tries to escape
